Peter and the Wolf
by intastella burst
Summary: It is silly to let old things govern the new. Peggy goes out dancing. Vague spoilers for Seasons 1-2. Pete/Peggy.


Even the thought of dancing makes her feel queasy and underexposed, like a reel of film played for too long or a piece of copy typed backwards. This is, of course, exactly why she goes. It is silly to let old things govern the new. (That would make a very smart ad, don't you think, a nice, shiny, possibly pink magazine insert about spring cleaning. She saves the thought for later, for the vacuum campaign.)

Peggy cleans her teeth with her finger--she left her toothbrush at the apartment and there is no way she will use her sister's--and the last of the toothpaste and then rinses, twice, rolling her lips carefully together. There is a good color in her cheeks. She will do the Twist with whomever she wants to--whomever asks her--and it will go easy, because her waist is slight and ribbon-like now. He won't be there anyway. He is married, and she thinks gossip is cruel but that doesn't stop her from hearing it, and she has heard that his wife is strong-minded, and Peggy can't imagine why she would let him go. You will have a splendid time, sweet, says her momma in the mirror, clipping the matching bows at the tips of her spine. _A Night to Remember_, Peggy thinks without even the faintest smidgen of regret.

The little tinkly happy bell at the diner doorjamb is jammed, angry metal bent sideways and a trickle of beer or gin running down the clear glass door. She isn't early, then.

It's quieter inside than she remembers it being last time, quieter and warmer. Pete sits with his back up against the wall in a library-green booth, a light in his hand and a pale smile on his small curved lips, the same pale smile she always remembers; forgetting would be tricky, because it is the same pale smile he made just before he went for her throat and his five o'clock (ten o'clock--seven o'clock--two o'clock, too many o'clocks, she thinks calmly, and that really would be an effective TV ad) shadow ate up the sweat and shivers standing out in the lines of her neck. _Peggy_, she sees rather than hears Paul shouting to the irrigated ceiling, almost overcoming the jukebox, it's little Pegs, here at last to reform the degenerates. Pete shifts the lighter in his soft genteel hands, jerking his head sideways at the napkin holder or at Harry, she isn't quite sure, clicking the flame on. And off.

* * *

"I had a nice time. I hope you did, too."

He is standing before her with his knobbly hands in his pockets, slanting his back so as to look taller, more impressive than his shoulderpads will allow, has been standing there mute for more than just a few moments now (she can't decide whether he's doing an excellent Mr. Draper--Don--impression or just too drunk to move), and the waiters cleaning out the place are beginning to look at them impolitely, and she could think of nothing really better to say. He's looking at her, like he does sometimes, when the news isn't interesting and the clients haven't arrived yet. He probably thinks that she is stupid and doesn't notice. That's all right. Miss Holloway--Joan--told her that when she smiles too often she looks simple. "Good night, Pete." She smiles just once.

She isn't surprised when he only nods, his hat sliding down further over his eyes. Nothing is really shocking about him, or Sterling Cooper, or any of it anymore. Not even his hand behind her head, yanking the clipped ends of her hair back and down, harsh enough to send a thin burning line up her scalp and down her spine. This would be easier if she still had a pigtail, she muses and almost says, would say were it not for his cold lips crushing hers down. He smells sharply of sweat and masking cologne, the cologne from the client they worked on together Thursday. If the waiters were staring before they are surely gawking by now, and Pete really should care, but of course he doesn't. They are just the help. There is the flavor of Coca Cola, and nothing else, on his tongue when she lets it in and wraps her own briefly around it. That doesn't surprise her, either. She hangs onto her purse for dear life. It is a strange and out-of-place lack of feeling, like it was meant to happen, or perhaps has happened before, once or more. A reel of film played for far too long.

She nudges him away by his gently throbbing neck and when he does not offer to help with her coat, slips it on herself. "If I don't go now I won't be able to get a good taxi." His lips are wet and his smile is no longer pale--it is gleaming red. He grabs her by the arm with three fingers when she pivots, and does up her top button with fingers stiff, arthritic, patting her collar down with a near-fraternal touch.

"You look nice," is what he says. "Too nice." She nods politely and smiles again. A conversation in reverse.

"Hunting," she observes pleasantly, "is a miserable sport." She loops her purse over her elbow and makes her gradual way out, expecting, but not waiting for, the tinkle of the newly restored doorbell in her wake.


End file.
